"What a wastrel."
Kailen could not help but sigh in disdain.
What he was seeing was simply too horrid.
Several ladies lay dead, face-forward on the floor of the large bedroom, with various wounds on their torn backs. From the pattern of the wounds, it was certainly possible that this degenerate had used whips to beat them up during some sort of pleasurable activities.
After that, the fellow—Rango fucking Reaverson—now snoring on the bed, had left them to bleed to death on the floor of the bedroom.
Kailen was not a saint, neither was he a hero.
He didn't deem himself a righteous person with a good heart.
And he was not one to criticize others for the choices they make.
He simply eliminated those who threatened him, his ambitions, or went after those he cared about.
